


come get your honey

by mediest



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22313122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediest/pseuds/mediest
Summary: “Felix,” Sylvain says, “if you win the White Heron Cup,I’llshow you a good time.”-Sylvain makes a series of transactions.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 23
Kudos: 818





	come get your honey

A stronger man would’ve kept his mouth shut. But it’s not just one of Sylvain’s lines: all that dance training honestly _is_ making a difference to Felix’s footwork. Felix shoots him a wary look, then shrugs in acknowledgment. “If I have to do it, I’d rather it not to be a complete waste of my time.”

He moves back into position, but Sylvain makes the universal hand signal for “time out, I need a breather”. Felix has already kicked his ass twice today; round three can wait. 

“Did you know Claude is taking bets?” Sylvain asks as he rolls out some of the tightness in his left shoulder. “Don’t let me down, Felix, I put good money on you.”

“Maybe I should throw the competition,” Felix volleys back with a smirk.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Sylvain laughs. Felix’s good moods are flash floods. Sudden, fast, deadly to whatever emotional protection Sylvain has built up brick by brick over the years. Why else do you think Sylvain is out here training? 

Felix flexes his sword grip. “Are you ready yet?”

Sylvain is, but he plays to character and says, “One more minute.”

“You’re getting too soft,” Felix huffs. 

Sylvain grins. “I was always soft. But hey, I’m a decent dancer. Let me know if you ever want a partner to practice with. I’m happy to help you impress some girls.”

“I’m not interested in that,” Felix says, with some annoyance. On to the next weather pattern.

“Why not? A little action could be just what you need.”

“The only action I care about”—is the action of the blade, Sylvain thinks—“is the action of the blade.”

His grin broadens. There’s no holding it back, so he doesn’t even try. “Will you promise me you’ll say yes to _one_ opportunity to have some fun? That’s all I ask. Let one person show you a good time.”

Felix’s face twists into a mix of revulsion and doubt. “Like who? You’re making assumptions.”

“C’mon,” Sylvain says. C’mon. _Look_ at you.

“What,” Felix says apprehensively.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, “if you win the White Heron Cup, _I’ll_ show you a good time.”

Felix goes silent. The entirety of the training grounds goes silent.

That isn’t true. Nobody else is paying any attention, the world is still revolving, and a comet hasn’t hit the earth and burned the monastery to the ground, but Sylvain’s pulse hasn’t gotten the message.

He knows how to translate Felix’s expressions. This one means he’s hungry. This one means Sylvain has gone too far. This one means there’s a softness still lurking inside of Felix between the bars. But right now Sylvain has no idea what Felix is thinking. His face is blank. He’s looking at Sylvain as if they’ve never met before. Walk it back, Gautier. Just walk it back.

“I’m serious,” Sylvain says.

Felix’s eyes narrow. For the briefest of moments, they flicker down to Sylvain’s mouth. 

Did the ground just shake? Did anyone else feel that? Just Sylvain?

Felix slides his left foot back and that’s all the warning Sylvain gets before he lunges. Sylvain flinches back, gets his own sword up to parry. 

Felix’s advance is relentless. Each cut is swift and deliberate, and never comes from the shoulder. He never leaves himself open. It doesn’t give Sylvain a lot of room to counterattack. 

“Are you mad?” Sylvain pants out amidst some sloppy defense. He’s no good with a sword. Lances are nastier, easier to make dangerous. They reward brute strength over skill. “Is this training or are you mad at me?”

“Focus,” Felix growls. 

Sylvain blocks more aggressively this time. Their swords connect with a hard wooden punch.

But Felix pushes into the resistance, shifts his weight sharply to the left, and suddenly the pommel of Felix’s sword is coming for Sylvain’s nose.

“Fuck!” Sylvain grits out, raising his arms to protect his face.

In the blink of an eye Felix drops his own sword and seizes the hilt of Sylvain’s. Sylvain jerks forward with realization, but by then Felix has already twisted Sylvain’s sword from his grip and turned it back on him. _Fuck_ that dance training footwork. 

Felix steps back, standing straight. He’s breathing hard too. Color creeps across his face and what’s visible of his throat. 

Sylvain keeps his hands up. He doesn’t care about getting disarmed anymore. He’s paying more attention to Felix’s expression. It’s watchful, jumpy, and flushed. Sylvain usually knows what it looks like when someone’s interested. Is this what Felix’s interest looks like?

“What happens if I lose,” Felix says, wielding Sylvain’s sword as if it puts himself in any less of a vulnerable position. His lashes are mesmerizingly dark. Who the hell made his lashes so dark?

What Sylvain does next is important. So he says, as easy as he can manage, nonthreatening, no pressure: “Then I guess I lose some money.”

Felix searches Sylvain’s face for a long time. Then he says, “Deal.”

-

Felix wins the White Heron Cup. 

Everything goes to shit after that anyway, so it’s not like it matters. 

-

Sylvain doesn’t think about the deal again for awhile. There’s other stuff going on. 

Like this:

Dimitri dies and Sylvain commits himself to civil war. Those five years, Sylvain learns a lot about himself. He killed his own brother. Killing his fellow countrymen is less complicated in comparison. 

Dimitri comes back missing an eye. There’s a visible bump over the midpoint of his collarbone where it fractured and failed to heal properly. His left shoulder has set lower than his right. He has the posture of a wild, beaten dog. A wolf that left the protection of its pack. The sight of him sunken and sick and obsessed, grimy with mud, muttering to himself, makes Sylvain want to break his own fist against a wall. His reaction doesn’t hold a candle to the look on Felix’s face.

Dimitri isn’t fit to lead. Sylvain finds out the hard way, in the middle of a razed and smoking village, applying steady pressure to Ingrid’s thigh with his bare hands. She bites back a cry as Felix cuts off the end of the arrow shaft in one smooth motion. From there, they carry her together: Felix at her armpits, Sylvain at her legs, both of them dead silent.

The villages outside Garreg Mach are infested with opportunists and they’ve spent the past week cleaning up. Rediscovering how to fight alongside each other. Ashe is an incredible instinctive shooter, but he needs an extra second to relax his bow grip, otherwise he’s too tense and it throws off his accuracy. Annette sometimes gets locked in on what’s coming ahead and forgets her blind spots. Dimitri used to map out in his mind where each and every one of them was on the battlefield. Dimitri doesn’t do this anymore, careless of the positions of either friend or foe. Ingrid takes that arrow for him and Dimitri doesn’t even slow down. 

Back at the infirmary, Mercedes has good news: the arrowhead didn’t hit bone. The bad news: it came close and now the tip has bent into a fish hook.

Mercedes removes her fingers from the gaping wound in Ingrid’s thigh and says with a veneer of calmness, “I need to push it in deeper first, in order to remove it without tearing the muscle even further. Would you like an anesthetic?” 

Through gritted teeth, Ingrid says, “No, thank you.”

She hates the hemlock. She doesn’t trust any agents for dulling pain. You have to let yourself feel it, she told Sylvain, who tends to follow the opposite philosophy. 

Sylvain sticks around to mop his favorite ladies’ foreheads. The arrowhead comes out clean and whole. The blood, which had been leaking sluggishly, begins to stream. But now that the extraction is done, the rest is up to magic. 

Ingrid’s throat sounds shredded from screaming when she says, ”If you squeeze my hand any harder, Sylvain, I’m going to lose an arm _and_ a leg.”

“Just the arm,” Mercedes says warmly. Under her palms, Ingrid’s blood clots quickly. The leg wound heals, closes. All the adrenaline racing through Sylvain’s body drops off a steep cliff.

“My fucking warrior,” he says, raw with relief. He kisses Ingrid’s pale sweaty cheek to minimal protest. 

“You should go and let her rest,” Mercedes tells him. Her gaze slides towards the doorway. “That means you too, Felix.”

Felix has said nothing for the past half hour. He’s holding himself together by a wire. Felix always gets this way. His protectiveness comes out ugly.

Ingrid, utterly worn out, says, “It wasn’t His Highness’s fault,” and Felix, true to expectations, says, “No, it’s yours.” 

“Felix,” Sylvain says.

“I told you,” Felix says, grim and distressed and angry. “I told _both_ of you. You still believe that wretched animal is worth your life? Whatever duties you think you’re bound to, forget them. If they were cheap before, they’re worthless now.”

Ingrid’s eyes flash. If she were in better shape, this would be a shouting match. Glenn this, Glenn that.

“You should go,” Mercedes repeats, no sharper than before, but Sylvain hears her loud and clear. He’s already grabbing Felix by the elbow. 

Outside, Felix wrenches his arm free. Sylvain allows it. He scrubs both hands through his hair and takes a deep breath, in and out through his mouth. The sour smell of Ingrid’s blood is thick and fresh on them both. Everyone’s just standing around stinking of guilt. 

“Do us all a solid and tone down the way you speak about His Highness,” Sylvain says. “It’s not helping.”

“His Highness,” Felix mocks under his breath. “You’re deluding yourself.” 

“I get that you’re upset—”

“Don’t tell me how I feel,” Felix snarls, but his voice hitches audibly on the word “feel”. A look of total betrayal and self-directed fury crosses his face. Then he goes storming off, making Sylvain chase after him, and Sylvain fucking does it because he’s a useless idiot with no fucking self-respect. 

He follows Felix down darkening corridors, to the dormitories, up the stairs. Finally he says: “Felix, if you don’t slow down I’m going to lose it.” 

At the top of the stairs, Felix whirls around.

“Are you _threatening_ me?”

“Goddess, you’re impossible,” Sylvain says. “No, I’m not threatening you, I’m _trying_ to look out for you.”

“Save your effort,” Felix says. “It’s never done anyone any good.”

That hurts, in a dark and targeted way that makes Sylvain’s own temper bare its teeth reactively. He ascends the stairs and closes the remaining gap. Felix doesn’t step back, which means Sylvain gets to use his full height, sliding right up past the intractable shell of Felix’s personal space. It’s satisfying, watching the shadow that his body casts over Felix’s face. Felix glares up at him, eyes flammable.

Sylvain says, “If you keep pushing us away, sooner or later we’re going to stay gone, and one day you’re going to wake up hating us for doing exactly what you asked for.” 

“I won’t,” Felix spits. “I’m not you.”

Man, Sylvain is almost proud of Felix. His aim has gotten better. 

Felix’s gaze blinks away from Sylvain’s face, then back onto it. The hot anger bleeds out of his facial muscles, as if he’s just now hearing what they’ve said to each other. Sylvain forces his own jaw to unclench. He let this get out of control.

He aims for a calmer tone. Lands near tired. “We don’t need to keep fighting, Felix.”

Something about that smashes against Felix’s defenses. “What else can I do?” he demands. “What else do I have?”

His shoulders are trembling. 

“Alright,” Sylvain mutters. “Enough of this.”

Felix slaps Sylvain’s extended arm aside. Sylvain keeps trying until Felix finally stops and lets Sylvain hug him. It’s not really a hug. It’s more like squeezing his arms around a hurricane. The eye in the center is clearer and less thunderously destructive than the surrounding walls. You just gotta make it there.

Felix’s breathing evens out. His shoulders drop down. Sylvain keeps his grip tight. He held on to everything too casually before. He won’t make that mistake again. They can pry Felix from his bloody fucking hands. 

Felix says something that gets half-lost against Sylvain’s chest. There’s a “sorry” in there.

“Shh,” Sylvain says. He dares to stroke Felix’s hair. “Me too, okay? We’re square.”

-

Once Ingrid is out of the infirmary, she and Felix disappear together at dawn and stay gone for the whole day. They’re spotted back on monastery grounds by Annette only an hour before sundown. 

“They were dragging a hart to the butcher,” she tells Sylvain conspiratorially over dinner. “It was twice Ingrid’s size.”

Sylvain says, “Oh, got it,” with a half-grin. 

“What?” Annette asks, the eager little gossipmonger. “What does it mean?”

“It means balance has been restored,” Sylvain says. “We can all sleep easy again.”

Eventually Felix and Ingrid are going to need to learn how to truly talk to each other after a fight. Until then, they’ll keep hunting together and sharing the meat until they decimate Fódlan’s deer population. 

A shaky equilibrium is achieved on the battlefield as well. Faerghus folk are not known for being adaptable. They’re stick-in-the-mud traditionalists. They’ve been doing the same shit for years. Goddess forbid they ever _not_ leave a kid on the side of a snowy mountain with a knife and a prayer, in a test of how long it takes for them to find their way back home. 

But when it’s adapt or die, you adapt. No more relying on Dimitri to pull anyone else out of the fire when he can’t even do it for himself. There’s a part of Dimitri that’s been burning alongside his family this whole time. That was a whole decade ago. That’s almost half of Dimitri’s life. Was Sylvain fucking _asleep_?

All that recalculation and for one reason or another Sylvain still ends up flat on the ground, dazed, unable to breathe. No clue what just hit him. Possibly the dark mage dying ten yards away. Felix’s blade slides home between her ribs. It’s a clean kill, the kind Felix is known for: efficient, unyielding, fast.

Sylvain rolls over, climbs back up on his hands and knees. That’s when he realizes he’s been poisoned because he immediately vomits up everything inside his stomach. 

As one retching fit ends and Sylvain prepares for another, Felix’s dark boots appear in front of him. 

“Drink this.”

Sylvain coughs up half of the antitoxin. The other half manages to stay down. He’s still pouring sweat and his heart’s still beating too quickly, but his head stops spinning. He wipes his disgusting mouth and looks up at Felix.

The red sky and smoke and blood settles around Felix’s figure like a halo. Maybe Sylvain is still a little dizzy. Felix got so pretty over the years.

“Whatever,” Felix grunts. Sylvain concludes that he said that last part out loud. “Get up if you can. We’re not done yet.”

They are well into day one of Imperial besiegement. Garreg Mach may be a pile of charred stone and rubble disguised as a monastery, but she’s holding up like a champion. 

Sylvain staggers back to his feet. He has to live long enough now to pay Felix back, but that’s nothing new.

-

Around this time is when Sylvain recalls the deal. 

On the one hand, it isn’t interesting or revolutionary to proposition your friends during wartime. On the other hand, it isn’t fun to watch Felix reject Dimitri with one hand and with the other keep digging through upturned earth for the bones of somebody he loved. A distraction would do Felix some good, if only for an hour or two. 

The topic comes up while there’s blood in Sylvain’s mouth. Funny how the country’s splintered and Sylvain is out there killing old friends and through it all, his exes are still alive, walking around with powerful right hooks.

It’s too embarrassing to ask Mercedes for a heal. Anyway, the damage isn’t too bad. He sits on his low bed, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief. There’s a quiet buzzing in his ears. 

He left his door open by accident. He watches Felix’s cautious approach.

“What happened?”

Sylvain smiles, then winces when it aggravates his split lip. “I had an encounter with lady vengeance.”

He forgot what he even did to her. Probably the same stuff he always does. Made her happy for a little while so he could punish her for it later. 

Felix makes a displeased noise. “You look so pitiful, I thought it’d be something more.”

“Come inside if you’re going to insult me,” Sylvain says. 

The odds are low, but Felix actually accepts the invitation, walking closer towards Sylvain’s bed.

Sylvain tilts his head up. “Where did you just come from?”

“The cathedral,” which explains Felix’s demeanor. On days spent standing sentry over Dimitri, Felix tends to be a little more willing to seek out other company as well. To verify that he hasn’t lost sight of anyone else. 

Felix holds out his hand. Sylvain passes the handkerchief over. 

They’ve done this before. One time Sylvain wanted to teach Felix a new game he’d learned from Miklan. Really easy game. First one to let go of the other kid’s hand loses. Felix went first and playfully hit Sylvain’s wrist. When it was Sylvain’s turn next, he slapped the back of Felix’s hand so hard that the skin turned white and then bright pink in an instant. Felix cried out, yanking his entire arm away from Sylvain and towards his own chest. He stared into Sylvain’s face, then burst into tears. It upset and confused Sylvain. This was just how the game was played. Glenn was incandescently furious. He got down to Sylvain’s level and Sylvain fully thought he was going to get hit. But Glenn just looked at him, strong and critical. He gave Sylvain a handkerchief and ordered: “That was wrong. Go fix it.”

Back then Felix forgave more easily. His love was tough to kill. He let Sylvain apologize and clumsily rub his damp red face dry with Glenn’s handkerchief.

Sylvain misses that. He misses all of them, Glenn, Dimitri, both Ingrid and Felix when they were younger. Everyone who’d tried to teach Sylvain to be a better person, and Sylvain never did a single fucking thing for any of them.

Felix wipes the dried blood from Sylvain’s chin. Sylvain turns his face obediently as directed. He closes his eyes. One of his molars is loose. Wiggling it back and forth with his tongue sends a burst of pain through his jaw, and his eyes tear up reflexively. Maybe he’ll have to visit Mercedes after all.

Felix misunderstands. He gentles his touch. His bedside manner honestly isn’t too bad. 

“She was from our old academy days,” Sylvain says. “I haven’t been dating around all that much recently.”

“I didn’t ask,” Felix says. 

Sylvain lets out a pained laugh and gives Felix his silence. Even after he’s fairly sure he’s as cleaned up as he’s going to get, Felix doesn’t stop. He strokes the handkerchief across Sylvain’s brow bone.

“You’re being nice to me today,” Sylvain says. All the blood he’s swallowed makes his voice thick. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Felix sounds distracted. “I can be nice.”

Sylvain tongues at the tooth again. “Don’t get too far ahead of me. I already owe you a couple favors.”

“What are you talking about,” Felix says. 

“You never collected after the White Heron Cup.”

Now Felix’s hand stops moving. It doesn’t yet retreat. 

“Did you forget?” Sylvain asks. 

“No,” Felix says. 

Sylvain opens his eyes. 

The warm evening light spreads across Felix’s face and ignites his hair. He looks momentarily startled, like he wasn’t expecting Sylvain to look at him right then. The shield doesn’t come down in time. For five seconds there’s a field of emotion, rich and expansive, laid out in the sun. Sylvain wants so badly to get his hands in there and dig around. 

“Give me a day to heal up.” Sylvain swipes his tongue across his bloody lower lip and sees Felix following his every move. “Then I can make good on our deal.”

“Our deal,” Felix repeats. 

He seems borderline pissed off now, so Sylvain says pacifyingly: “No hard feelings if you want to call it off, I just think I could help you relax. I swear that’s my only goal here.”

There’s that interest in Felix’s expression again, a more mature version of it five years later: less avoidance, more heat. There’s some nervousness, the normal level of hostility, plus something else. What is that? 

“Fine,” Felix says gruffly. “Tomorrow.”

-

Sylvain has plenty of ideas about how this will go. He’s thought about it, you know? Lots of kissing. He imagines Felix to be a decent kisser—a person who hasn’t had much in the way of experience, but who takes instruction well if it’s dressed up like a challenge. 

Some heavy petting, if Sylvain’s lucky, but Felix is slow to warm up in normal situations. It’s unlikely to go any faster in bed. 

At the end of the day, Sylvain is content to just kiss. If Felix wants to go slow, Sylvain can do that: experience the taste and feeling of Felix’s mouth, stroke his tongue against Felix’s, take Felix’s hair down, tangle his hands in it, see if Felix likes that. Sylvain has his own theory. He’d helped Felix wash his hair once when they were on the road together and Felix was running out of options. The way Felix’d gone docile by the end had felt fucking spiritual.

If Felix wants to go faster, Sylvain can definitely do that too: get a little adventurous with his hands, a little dirty with his mouth. He’ll lie back on the bed and drape Felix across his chest and they’ll keep kissing and groping until the sun goes down and Sylvain loses track of time and Felix forgets his own name. Felix seems like a guy who could really be taken apart by a good kiss. Like he could get really deep and lost inside one, instinctively chasing Sylvain’s tongue back into his mouth. Giving up some soft starved noises for Sylvain to remember. If Felix is smart he’ll show up in a shirt with a lower collar than usual. Sylvain wants to turn Felix’s throat all sorts of colors. 

He was telling the truth, all those years ago. Felix needs to be shown a good time. Sylvain has the credentials. It’ll be fun, it’ll be distracting, everyone goes home happy. 

This is in fact what happens, with one exception: as the sun goes down, and Sylvain loses track of time, Felix unbuckles Sylvain’s pants. 

“Oh shit,” Sylvain exhales against Felix’s mouth.

Sure, Sylvain’s had an erection for like the past century, but he assumed they were both going to ignore it. Felix pulls back and looks at Sylvain with his eyes and his hair and his swollen red mouth. His pupils are blown, leaving behind only slivers of amber. His neck is mottled with bruises. Maybe Sylvain got a little carried away there. 

“Can I,” Felix starts, and drags the heel of his palm against the thick bulge in Sylvain’s pants.

That’s— _really_ nice, but Sylvain grabs Felix’s wrist. “Felix, I’d love that, but you don’t have to,” he says.

“I know that,” Felix says flatly.

“I mean it. No pressure. This is about you, remember?”

Felix’s gaze sharpens. “This isn’t part of the deal.” 

“Right,” Sylvain says. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“No—” Felix looks down, blows out a frustrated breath, and then looks back up at Sylvain. “I don’t want to barter or bargain with you. I’m not trading any more favors.” It’s taking Felix a lot to say this right now. The effort is written all over his face. “I’m giving this to you,” Felix says lowly. “Do you understand?”

Sylvain lies there, heart pounding, dick hard, and nods. 

Felix adds grudgingly, “You’ll have to help me with what to do.”

Sylvain opens his mouth to respond. What comes out is a pathetic noise when Felix travels down the length of his body.

He feels like he’s dreaming, watching Felix’s dark hair glide down his chest. Felix keeps going lower and lower until he’s flat on his stomach, framed between Sylvain’s thighs. This is a dream. Sylvain has been gored by an axe through the chest and this is his brain’s charitable deathbed hallucination.

Felix pushes the hem of Sylvain’s shirt up. His breath hits Sylvain’s naked stomach. That alone makes Sylvain slam his gaze up to the ceiling, before he decides, shit, he can’t miss out on seeing this. So he looks on, entranced by the muscles of Felix’s back, the angle of his shoulderblades. He stares hypnotized as Felix pulls out his cock.

Felix takes in the sight of Sylvain’s dick with hooded eyes. He jerks it firmly from the base to the tip, learning the size of it in his hand, how heavy it is, how hot the skin feels.

Then he bends and mouths at the cockhead. He rubs his tongue against the wet tip. The way Felix is blushing doesn’t make him any less focused. Felix tastes Sylvain’s cock with a hunter’s patience. It takes a world of effort for Sylvain not to thrust up into Felix’s silky mouth. 

“Try taking more,” Sylvain says, voice already rough. 

“You sure?” Felix glances up Sylvain’s body. “You seem like a quick shot, Gautier.”

Fraldarius has _jokes_ now? “Alright, fuck you too,” Sylvain laughs. 

He reaches to tuck a piece of hair behind Felix’s ear. It falls right back down. Felix smiles, a small one, and tucks the hair back again more securely.

Sylvain’s pulse booms inside his ribs like a castle under siege. He’s in so much trouble. He’s been in trouble for years.

Felix does end up needing some guidance, but cocksucking’s like anything else. Take risks, get feedback, and practice repetition. “That feels good,” Sylvain says, holding Felix’s hair back, appreciating the view. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

He really is. Felix is a single-minded student. He listens to Sylvain’s touch against his scalp, following it like a large, sleepy cat. He’s sloppily relentless. Getting spit everywhere as he works out how to fit Sylvain’s cock deeper in his mouth. Fuck if that doesn’t turn Sylvain on. It’s the easiest thing to get lost in the sensation of Felix’s mouth. Felix’s level of concentration, like the universe begins and ends right here in Sylvain’s bed.

Felix bobs his head up and down on Sylvain’s dick with long, flat strokes of his tongue—hungry, fucking tenacious. He rolls Sylvain’s balls in his palm and squeezes, and it makes Sylvain’s hips jerk up a little too enthusiastically. 

Felix gags and pulls off, wiping his damp chin. Sylvain’s cock curves back up against his stomach, flushed and aching, shiny with drool. 

“Fuck,” Sylvain says, “sorry,” but Felix’s gaze is dark and heavy-lidded. He gets his breath back and goes back in for more. 

Felix isn’t a quitter. And Sylvain can see the way Felix is humping down against the bed. It drives him crazy, thinking about Felix grinding himself to orgasm as he teaches himself how Sylvain likes to get his dick sucked. 

Sylvain thumbs over Felix’s cheek, feeling the way Felix shivers. He says, with a tinge of desperation, “I’m gonna come. Are you—”

Gonna swallow, he means to ask, but Felix doesn’t give him the chance. Hearing that Sylvain is close lights a whole new fire in Felix. He picks up the pace. 

Sylvain’s stomach tenses up, slick with sweat. Oh fuck. His thighs quiver. His breath comes shaky and fast. 

Felix is sloppy at swallowing too. Most of it leaks out of his mouth, dribbling back down Sylvain’s cock. Sylvain has to nudge Felix away with a weak groan, twitchy and overstimulated.

Felix uses Sylvain’s bedding to clean his face, then pushes himself up. He sits straddling Sylvain’s legs. His skin is blotchy pink and the hard outline of his own cock in his pants makes Sylvain’s mouth water. 

“Let me help you out with that?” Sylvain says.

Felix’s voice is hoarse and used. Somehow still sardonic. “No pressure.”

Sylvain props himself up onto an elbow. He brushes his other hand softly against the bruised column of Felix’s neck. Maybe it’s because he just came, so he’s feeling honest, but he says, “It never cost anything. How I feel about you.”

Felix looks with recognition at Sylvain’s face, at whatever’s in there. 

So much of the shit that Sylvain’s gotten in life, he never earned. Each day of this war he feels like he’s adding more and more lines to his ledger. Sylvain doesn’t deserve this. He knows for a fact that he doesn’t. Yet kings and emperors have allowed far worse to happen. The world is full of injustice. Maybe whoever’s in charge can turn a blind eye to this too: Felix coming closer to kiss Sylvain again, and Sylvain taking it freely.


End file.
